Aftermath
by Leoin
Summary: A continuation of TDK: Consequences are no one's friend. Batman's an outlaw, there's a rumble at Arkham, and the city is about to find out just what brand of insanity it really can face. Incorporating Nolanverse&Comics canon and characters.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note:** This idea has been rummaging through my head for the past two weeks and I figured I had nothing to lose by at least putting it down on paper, so to speak. I have the prologue and two following chapters done though I'll be revising and outlining a bit more before adding them and writing more. This is basically to test the waters and hopefully by putting this up get the whip cracking on me to finish it.

This is set in the Nolan-verse, though I will be borrowing characters and some canon from the comics, B:tAS, as well as using my own interpretations. If I succeed I hope it will end up being the best of both words, and – in my mind at least – serve as a continuation of "The Dark Knight". It's hard to give you first readers an idea of where I want to go and who will be making appearances without giving too much of the story away, so I will just say this: leave me feedback – of any kind – and I hope you'll stick with me past this little introduction.

**Rating:** Mature/"R". There will be language, violence, adult themes, and etc.

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**Prologue**

The rain hit the pavement with enough force to seemingly make the street beneath it shudder, thunder rolling across the cityscape as buildings of glass and metal rose across a skyline of dark clouds. The blue glow of a television wavered from inside one of the office lobbies, barely noticeable from behind the fogging glass outside the window's ledge.

A woman in a pleated navy blue suit sat behind a desk, hair swooped to the side with a wiry microphone pressed against her ear. Her voice droned on the shallow ebb and flow of the media while the image of Salvatore Maroni hung at her left. "- remains to be seen after his release from the hospital. Statements from his representatives have not been issued thus far.

"Gotham police have proved diligent in their continually increasing efforts to bring those effected in the tragic events of last month to justice. While the city mourns the loss of District Attorney Harvey Dent, Assistant D.A. Rachael Dawes, Commissioner Loeb, Judge Surillo and countless civil servants and civilians at the hands of both madmen the Batman and the Joker, new initiatives are being put in place to not only keep Gotham's criminals behind bars, but bring the masked vigilante into custody. Gotham's very own citizens have begun to aid the efforts, sightings of the Batman trickling into the GPD. Officers feel that his apprehension is only a matter of time." She straightened her papers, tapping them against desk before cueing the weather report with a somber smile.

The cowled head bowed against the rain outside, metal grips hooking against the brick and stone of the building and he continued his ascent. The rooftop stood silent and cold, water pooling in the center.

"Took you longer than usual." A figure in a long rain coat and squared glasses stepped from the shadows.

"A pager isn't exactly a beacon in the sky," the Batman ground out, voice gruff and strange still to his own ears.

"True," Gordon nodded, looking at the dark clouds above. "I was worried you wouldn't show..." There was a pregnant pause before, "How have things been?"

"Wet." He felt his lips twitch.

The Commissioner flustered for a moment, caught between amusement and apprehension,"I meant-"

"- I know what you meant. Things are the way we agreed. The city is better for it." The caped figure walked to the edge of the high-rise, cape trailing against the ground as he peered out across the city as it sprawled.

"Nearly all of the GPD putting their manpower into hunting you down instead of the real killers out there – yeah, a whole lot better." Gordon stuffed his hands into this pockets in frustration, fingers brushing against the badge there.

"The people. They're better. This city is alive again because Harvey's message has outlived him. Gotham still has it's White Knight."

"While it's Dark fends off as many cops as he does criminals!" His voice rose and fought against cracking.

"This isn't about me." The eyes lined in dark grease-paint beneath the leather locked with those underneath the brows of the policeman, blank as he always tried to keep them while in the suit.

"No, it's about an ideal. The very ideal embodied in a man who fell just like the rest of us, a gun to the head of my _kid_ while he was at it. You're the talk of the town, and the verdict is out. You're not the hero anymore. You've become the villain." Gordon strode over to the black figure as he finished, as close as he would dare, his neck craning in an effort to put his face in front of the other man's.

"Not forever." Batman looked away, the flickering of a far-off street lamp a convenient distraction. Inwardly he bristled with the urge move away; take to the currents and drift back down to where he belonged. Jim Gordon was an ally; one of three men he felt he could trust absolutely. One of three men whom he believed was as dedicated to this unending mission as he.

Of course, he had thought the same of Harvey Dent.

The name rolling across his mind made his fists tighten unwillingly. Remorse, regret, anger. He didn't know which was which anymore. The last was the most comforting.

"But for now?" Gordon asked, pulling the Bat out of his thoughts, sounding tired as he pushed his glasses up from the bridge of his nose, pinching the cartilage. He saw the figure nod in a slow affirmative.

After a beat the low voice came, "How's the boy?"

"As well as can be expected," the Commissioner replied shaking his head, memories hitting against the backs of his eyes in what seemed to be an incessant repetition of a parent's worst nightmare, again and again. "Still your biggest fan, I'm afraid." He sensed the tensing along the caped shoulders and hastily added, reassuring, "He knows he can't say anything about what really happened. He... he understands, I think. Understands better than I do, maybe."

"Smart kid."

"Yeah..." Gordon let the word lie in the air, the space between them still streaking with rain and a heavy silence as both seemed unsure where they stood in the new world they were making. "I didn't call you here for a chat though, I'm afraid. Word is Jeremiah Arkham recently received a large donation for the Asylum. Something under the table. Maybe a benefactor. Maybe hopeful new management."

"Who would want a madhouse?"

"That's the question I'm not sure I want an answer to ... We don't know anything yet and don't have the grounds for suspicion to request a formal investigation, but if this is showing on my radar it had better be on yours too. I'd feel better if it was, at any rate."

"I'll keep an eye out." Batman cast a sidelong glance at Jim before both felt the moment break, a silent end to their midnight obstruction-of-justice. "Goodnight, Commissioner." He mounted the short brick ledge, cape shaking into wings before he jumped, wind whistling against the resistance.

"Goodnight," Gordon mouthed before he turned, steps echoing back to where he had come from.

Batman stepped from the alley a moment later as a pistol shot rang in a sharp and violent crack, the figure of dark knight fading into an inky black sky. Papers clung to his feet and shuffled against the ground. The face of Harvey Dent stared up from the pavement on a leaflet, "I Believe" mud splattered, the right side ragged and torn completely.


	2. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes:** Thank you to everyone who has put me or this story on alert or marked it as a favorite. I checked this morning and there were enough email alerts to make me say, "Whoa!" which was completely unexpected. An even bigger thank you to those who took the time to review, or as I have seen around Livejournal, recc this. There are individual comments to reviews here at the bottom – I'll always give you a reply to a question (so long as it doesn't give too much away) or a response to individual comments if you'd like one. Just let me know.

Some comics characters and canon are introduced here. I won't be pointing them out in every chapter, but I'll definitely answer any questions that arise, and I'd love to see you all pick out what you find in reviews/comments. Like I said before, I _am going to pull from my own interpretations and bend certain canon to fit my story_. This is in no shape or form meant to be completely by the book. Sorry if this irks some!

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**Chapter 1:**

The old grandfather clock was ticking in time with his words, she noticed.

"It's so refreshing to see someone really take an interest in the unfortunate." A man in thin-framed glasses and white, shocking hair intoned from behind his desk. "I can't tell you what kind of stigma our patients have in Gotham. The mentally unstable are perfectly capable of rehabilitation – and your grant! That was very generous Miss ...," Jeremiah Arkham let the title fade into silence, inclining his head in an expectant way, looking down his crooked nose and pale skin.

Silence.

"We like to keep our names anonymous," his addressee replied. "These kinds of issues are very close to my family and we're well known in certain circles. I'd like to keep this as quiet as possible. I'm sure you understand. It's just like you said, isn't it? The stigmas attached to those who are, or are willing to help, those others condemn as insane." The woman smiled tightly and sweetly, crossing one leg over the other as she leaned back to rest against the cushion of the chair, her fingers entwining over her knee delicately after she brushed a dark sweep of hair out of her eyes. She looked at the man across from her intently.

"Oh, yes." He smiled, knowingly. "It's ... it can be very difficult. I understand. And I can assure you not just myself but the entire staff is very appreciative. Especially the Head of Security – I believe you met Mr. Bolton at the entry? We can finally better equip the cells! Electrical wiring can be so expensive -"

_Chattering on again_, she thought tersely, the urge to roll her eyes near undeniable. She twisted her fingers together roughly, glancing quickly at her watch and interjected, interrupting: "Dr. Arkham. Really." She shifted in her seat, leaning towards him. "I want to get to the reason I'm here before I need to leave: there's a favor I need that I think you'll be more than willing to return."

Arkham arched an eyebrow from across his desk, the over-polite facade slipping a little. "Yes?"

"I'd like a little say in how things are run around here. If you don't mind."

He looked shocked for instant - as she had expected - before the lines of his face inched downward, decidedly perturbed. "Excuse me? What makes you think I would grant any of sort of control over my medical facility to a woman without a name and without any suitable reason? This is a _professional_ institution. You can keep you money if you think you can just buy this place for whatever kind of sick -!"

"Oh no, Dr. Arkham," she replied, cutting him off. Her voice was louder but still calm – confidently so. "This isn't about money. It's never about _money_. And that's not what is going to get your compliance in the first place ... You mentioned 'sick'." She tapped a finger against her chin as if thinking. "I wonder, just what would happen to you if those experiments of yours got out."

His right eye ticked.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he mumbled, seemingly alarmed.

"I'm sure," she drawled. "Mr. Bolton does, though. Seems you know a little about his own _activities_ towards the less cooperative inmates. ... And he came so highly recommended. Who ever could have sent him here?" She should have said it condescendingly. Maybe a bit of smile as she saw his eyes widen further. Instead she felt her face fall flat; there wasn't any joy in this. This was business. This was necessary. "We're adults here. Let's not play games, Dr. Arkham."

She continued after a beat. "Speaking of employee's, how has Gotham's favorite little bird been? Flying out many windows lately, or was it just that one breakout last month?"

The doctor grit his teeth and ground out, "Dr. Crane is suitably contained."

"You really should heighten your screening process, Dr. Arkham." She did smile now, slowly, allowing herself a little enjoyment. "Seems your doctors are as crazy as their patients."

"Just the one!" he shouted, desperately, fingers tightening around the pencil he had lying idly in his hands up until that point.

His assailant rose, ending the conversation. "I'll be in touch. Specifically, I'll be wanting files on a few of your more notorious patients. Especially your newest." Arkham's eyes narrowed.

She turned her back on him before stopping a moment later, catching herself mid-step as if she had forgotten something. "I trust I don't have to threaten you about going to the police. Gotham may have gotten a little lift as far as optimism goes, but finding a cop who actually gives a damn about this place is like looking for a needle in a haystack." Jeremiah's face hadn't moved from his previous scowl, mouth twisting before he looked down towards his desk, breaking her stare.

"It's a pleasure doing business with you," she said in response, voice sounding dull even to her own ears. The door latch lifted under her hand as she let herself out, the open portal allowing the echo of screams from the outside into the quiet tension of the office.

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"How'd it go?" he asked as she slid into the car outside, Arkham's gates closing behind them a moment later as the car made it's way along the dark of the road.

"He got the point," she said without looking at him, slipping her gloves from her hands.

"Good," he smiled, the grin reaching all the way up to his oriental eyes, teeth glinting in the low light. "Now, listen to me Talia – I know you've got a personal investment into this city, but I won't have you ruining the plans of something greater than yourself out of some kind of vendetta-"

"I kn_ow_," she bit, frustrated at the lecturing tone.

The man beside her sighed before collecting himself and beginning again. "This is very important," he said slowly, one long arm wrapping around her, fingers coming to grip her resistant shoulder. "We have never failed before. The mantle has been passed to me, and we are stronger than ever. I _will_ finish what the last started."

"Yes, _Ra's_." It felt like a joke just leaving her mouth.

"Talia-!" It was a warning, a shout. Inwardly he wanted to hit her. If it weren't for the remaining men's loyalty, and the legend attached to her name, he would have gotten rid of her – personally - the instant the old man had died. _The name_, he sneered. _Not her name. Not her _real_ name, not anymore. My title, my glory, my new legacy._

She looked at him, her own emotions mirroring his in a strange parallel. He wasn't Ra's Al Ghul. Not the real one. Not the one she had known. He didn't deserve the name. _It's not his_. "Just because you have the name of my Father now doesn't mean you get to scold me like some sort of child. I'm more dedicated to the mission than you could ever be."

"Why? Because it's _personal_?" the man asked, voice mocking. It infuriated her, and if she hadn't seen her Father in that instant, his face in her mind's eye and all those hours of pain and blood going over discipline, she would have snapped him in two.

"No," she said, "not to _me_. But it was to _him_."

The car drove on, the cabin filled with silence.

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**Author's Notes Con't**: This is one of the times I will be pointing out the comic influence and answering a few questions before they are asked: Yes, Ra's Al Ghul had a daughter. No, the Ra's of BB is not alive (for me at least) and therefore yes, the League of Shadows (League of Assassins in the comics, if you are googling) has a new leader assuming the name – as is the way established in BB considering there are no Lazarus Pits.

**Reviews**

_hidden-rose15_: Thankyou for reviewing and thanks for letting me know where this was recc'd. I really appreciate your comments. As for the relationship between Gordon/Batman(Bruce): I'm one of those people who believe anything could happen and I'm open to it all. However, I really want to try and keep this fic as "gen" as possible – that means no romance that would steal the show in an unnecessary way for any character. I can definitely see writing short, separate pieces set inside this fic that explore certain relationships/scenes (per request?), though not included in these chapters, for those who wish to keep the romance out of it.

Likewise, if anyone is inspired to do their own reading between the lines based on what you read here, please post it! Just credit me if you use a specific scene and let me know so I can read :)

_planetgal471_: Thankyou! And thank you more so for your con-crit. I hate feeling repetitive so I sometimes skip on using names which can make perspective tricky – I'll work on that. And you pointed out my silly mistake to fix. :)


	3. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes**: A little longer than usual. My outline has it at about double this (one more scene), but I figured where I ended was a good place to cut it, and you would enjoy a shorter wait.

Again, thank you to the reviewers and those who have added me or the story to your alerts and favorites.

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**Chapter 2**:

This one was smart ... _er_. She'd stopped wearing hairpins to their sessions after that last, ah, _accident._

Well, he mused, watching her pen move over the tablet in front of her while she sat in the chair, it was really more of an _incident_ than an accident. Purely intentional. In fact, he'd thought about it the entire hour, and a little the night before in his cell, the straight-jacket pinching him but not quite hard enough.

She liked to think of it as otherwise (judging from the way she hadn't mentioned it since), blood running down her stockings from the tiny wound in her thigh. She'd ended their little discussion pretty soon after that, limping out after he and the guards, making sure no one had noticed.

He'd gone through a lot – _a. lot._ – of doctors this past month. Four, to be exact. He'd heard it was a record. The first three had been in the first week and half. It was pretty_ fun_, actually (and if nothing else it wasted the time he had to waste). He liked seeing all the different ways they reacted to all his different stories, colorful as he imagined them.

The second one had been a man, for instance, straight black hair reminding him of an oil slick and making him wish he'd been able to get a hold of a lighter while he was at it. His eyes were so big while he was making his notes, recording every little thing the patient on the couch was saying; something about his Pop and the unorthodox way he'd have his new knives broken in.

What a _joke_.

It was even funnier when he had to quit. Nightmares, he'd said.

Sometimes the stories would be funny (who knew you couldn't patent fish?) – he liked to make people laugh, after all. Really laugh. It was absurd, when you thought about it – and absurdity was all he ever thought about. The whole world was crazier than he could ever be (not that he was crazy, _no_); he just had a jump on most of the people still waddling around pretending they knew what the hell was going on.

This one though. All that hair pulled tight, the over-large glasses, the way she wouldn't open her _mouth_ and say anything about the way he'd get a little too close before her hand lingered over the emergency button and he'd calm back down, putting his back against the couch again and rattling his chains with a smile, playing the game himself. Everyday. Noon.

"Why don't you tell me about the subject you've been avoiding since you began your therapy, Joker." She stared at him pointedly over her rims, pen poised, mouth in a straight line.

"Why don't you tell me about the book you're writing?" he asked her instead, cocking his head and letting the corner of his mouth droop with the question while he crossed one leg over the other, mirroring her position and posture. He blinked expectantly, mockingly.

It took her off guard. His voice, it's usual ebb and flow sing-song pitch was lower and harder; the question itself, well...

She set her pen down. "Book?"

"I'm guessin' – and this is just a _hunch_," he rolled his shoulders and his fingers flinched, "- that you, _Ms_. Quinzel, are going to make a pretty penny off of dear old Uncle Joker."

She shook her head in denial earnestly, "No. No. There is a strict client-doctor privilege-"

"- that doesn't mean _squat_?" He smacked his lips and narrowed his eyes at her, as if he expected an answer to his rhetorical question.

She looked flustered for just a moment and he resisted a smile. Her mouth opened, little sounds that were meant to be words starting and then stopping as she attempted a suitable response.

He started to laugh, low and slow before it rose, crescendoing into something loud and manic. He wiped at his eyes, still devoid of paint – now _that_ really did _annoy_ him. Was it really so hard to show a little hospitality? - as if he were wiping a tear, flicking his wrist dramatically. "Oh, Doc. I'm just kidding! Of course you're going to write a book and of course you're gonna get a lot of money and Of. Course. Because that's what _people - do_."

"What people do...?" She asked hesitantly, her eyes all the while glued to the man that seemed to be bursting from the inside out with all the kinetic energy chains kept locked away. She granted the door a fleeting glance, thinking that it was time to end it. She thought that a lot lately – all the times he'd jump up from his seat during the little insights into his past, gestures articulating his point as much as his voice did; the times she'd find herself closer to him than necessary, her hand working furiously with her pen while he'd tell her _all_ about his past antics, grinning up at her afterwards; right before his hand had unwound from around her back, cuffs and all, and sent the tiny accoutrement into her leg after he'd asked her if she'd ever been shot before, what she thought it'd feel like.

He closed his eyes and opened them, jaw working before he looked to the ceiling, splaying his hands in front of him as if he were holding out cards for her to pick from. "People ... will do ... whatever they think will get them ahead." He swallowed, staring at her as if he were a teacher, looking to see if the small one in the back of the class was getting it. "You're going to write a book about me because here I am, ready for you to use. And they'll buy it. And you'll sit there, in your new little _office_, and remember all the times you really should have _told_ someone what was going on here, but you didn't, and you'll feel a little guilty ... but you won't care. And do you know _why_?"

"Because it got me what I wanted," she replied, voice distant.

"Ex-actly! I knew you were a good girl. I didn't even need flashcards." He looked genuinely pleased, the scars across his cheeks moving, dark hair curly and falling over the sides of his face and against the orange of the uniform.

"So," the Doctor asked, "is that why you pursued the Batman like you did? Why you hold on to the belief that he will come and start "it" again, as you call it? Because people do whatever they have to to get the things they want?"

"It's not a belief, it's a fact." He shook his head, fingers tightening. Like she knew anything. Cute little Doctor with all her research and those annoying cardigans. He got the sudden, blooming image of making her smile – a nice one, right up to those blue eyes – and the way she'd probably scream. Everyone sounded so different, when you got right down to it.

"And he'll come," he began again, nodding more to himself than her. "He will. He won't be able to help it, no. No. It's the end of the night and we still haven't danced!" He looked at her, as if daring her to ask another question. As if he wanted to _really_ say something.

But she was too afraid to hear it.

She watched the guards grab him by the elbows outside, one at each side and one behind with a gun. The chains rattled as he walked, inmates along the hall farther down hooting and hollering. She turned, her shoulders slumping as she let the walls fall down. Dr. Arkham stood at the opposite end of the hall looking like an animal trapped, a tall brunette woman and an Asian man in a suit that looked like more than her salary stood with them, lips moving steadily but silently.

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Bruce Wayne sat down behind his wood and brass desk, windows blanketing the wall behind him and letting the light stream in a wash of morning sun. His laptop was open to his email, a dozen addresses highlighting the screen in new messages as he barely cast them a glance. He sunk into his chair, staring past the device before rubbing his hands over his eyes in a weary gesture.

It had been a long night, a longer week. An even longer month.

He had figured, when the idea first came to him to be the Bat he himself feared, that life would stop being normal – whatever that meant. That he would be alone, or hunted, or feared, or perpetually exhausted; he expected it. What he hadn't counted on was all of them at once.

Or that he would be the one encouraging it.

Part of him had held hope that one day Gotham would no longer need him. That someone – someone like Harvey Dent – would do his job, but in the light; in the courtroom, in the streets, shaking hands and changing lives. That he and Rachael would settle down. That he would leave the superficial world of Bruce Wayne and nightmare that was Gotham under Batman's watch and just be.

But now he realized, as he picked up the rolled newspaper to his right and opened it without enthusiasm, that as sure as he knew that would never be a reality because of what had happened last month, the real truth of the matter was that it was never in the cards in the first place. He had never really been Bruce Wayne, and he didn't know if he could ever _stop_ being Batman. There was no in-between; no happy medium.

The paper in his hand crinkled and he looked down, scanning the headlines before intending to read it cover to cover as he did every morning while waiting for his coffee and his call-list. At some point it had made him feel connected – now it was just another reminder of what he was and what he wasn't.

_The weather was going to be clear all week. A car crash at 1__st__ and 42__nd__. A family-favorite restaurant was closing, making way for the new hot-spot, the Iceburg Lounge_ (Bruce anticipated a grand-opening invite and felt the need to sigh). _Two women found dead in a Narrows apartment, an unknown and deadly toxin considered the culprit – police are waiting for forensics and the autopsy..._

That stopped his lazy perusal in an instant. It felt familiar, and his first thought was of Arkham Asylum and another man behind a mask – one with a pension for poisons of sorts.

He considered for a moment heading over there now, daylight or not. Calling Gordon. Asking to speak with the reporter. It was impossible, of course. It was morning, he had an entire day of meetings that – no matter how much he would have liked to remain absent for – couldn't be missed and-

"Mr. Wayne?" A voice called from the door. Bruce snapped his head up, surprised he hadn't been aware enough to notice the intrusion. He felt his shoulder's tension lesson though the second he saw who it was.

"Lucius. Good morning. I didn't hear you come in." He set the paper down on the desk, rising and pressing his suit down before walking the length of the office. Lucius gave him a sturdy handshake.

"You looked busy." He eyed him, knowingly. "Anything interesting in the paper? I haven't had the chance to sit down to it."

"A murder." Bruce sounded grim, turning his back as he started the stroll back to his desk, lifting the paper and offering it. Fox opened it, flipping through the pages.

"I'm guessing this is a little more out of the ordinary, then? And no Batman sightings?" His eyes flickered quickly across the wording.

"Just the usual," Bruce replied, watching him read the article. "I'm contemplating visiting Dr. Crane."

Lucius lifted his eyes from the paper, silent, eyebrows raising slightly towards his hairline. "Do you really think that's a good idea?"

"I don't have any other choice. Cops won't touch the place, the Scarecrow doesn't have a lot of respect for that kind of authority as is, and he's already broken out twice." He couldn't help but find it distantly amusing the way Lucius did the same exact thing his Father did – he wasn't going to tell him it was a bad idea outright; Bruce was supposed to figure it out on his own. The pointed stare was a big give away.

The older man sighed, folding the paper in one hand before setting it on the desk. "I can't tell you not to go, so I'll just tell you why I'm here instead." Bruce smiled, faintly, and nodded. "The tumbler's back in working condition."

"That was quick." He was genuinely surprised. "I was kind of getting used to the Pod though." _Though it wasn't exactly the most discreet _...

"Well, I figured you'd be needing it ... and it seems I was right. Just try not to total it again." He gave Bruce a friendly pat along the back, both smiling at the other, though Lucius' own tinged with hesitance. "Be careful, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce nodded, bobbing his head good-naturedly the way a kid does when their parents are telling them what they already know.

_I'll try._

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**Author's Notes**: The big Harley debate! I know some people are completely against her appearance in Nolanverse, but I couldn't imagine showing Joker at Arkham without her. I will say however that as of right now she doesn't have a large role in _this_ story. I have a lot if ideas about incorporating comic canon into the Nolanverse, so there may be room for a Harley Quinn should I ever write an all-out sequel to this but ... well, one story at a time.

I'll be updating at least once a week, pending catastrophe, so see you next time.


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